Of The End
by DrWorm
Summary: I'm a tiger... a tiger... a tiger. Harry speaks of disturbing dreams and unhappy obsession with a man he can't even call by his first name. Harry/Remus
1. Down to the earth I fell, with dripping ...

Notes: Um… I guess I'll write more if I can sway it with the literary muse. 

By the way… *pokes Remus/Harry fans* Where is this fabled "mailing list" that I've been unable to find when left to my own devices? Link? Please? ;__; I'd be ever so grateful.

Of The End

This is the beginning. 

I think there's something wrong with me. 

Physically, I've been slow to develop. Even at the age of fifteen, I look about the same as I did when I was twelve. I'm thin, short, and a little willowy around my limbs. My skin is smooth and a slightly too pale; I have yet to develop facial hair of any kind. 

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and wonder whether I should have been born a girl. Maybe it would have made things easier. 

While my body may be slow adjusting to the idea of puberty, my mind has had no problem with the idea of a 'sexual revolution' of sorts. It's a burning teenage love deep in the pit of my stomach. 

I read somewhere that when girls mature they sometimes suffer from extremely poor body image. I wonder… does that ever happen to boys too? Perhaps that's my problem. I'm a little afraid of becoming an adult, having an adult body. But my mind is also afraid of staying inside the body of a child.

I want to talk to someone. But I feel like this is something I should keep to myself. I can't imagine sitting down with Ron and Hermione, casual and happy in the commons room, and trying to tell them about what's eating away at me. 

It's not abnormal. That what I keep trying to tell myself. It's not abnormal; it doesn't make me a bad person. But it still_ feels wrong, no matter what I try to tell myself. I miss the days when I lay awake in bed thinking about Quidditch or homework I had yet to do. _

Now… now it's all about fucking. Every night I tug the curtains closed around my bedposts, snuggle beneath my covers, and reach one hand 'down there' to touch myself. If I don't, my dreams become vividly sexual… sometimes frightening. I've dreamed about being raped before, and those dreams confuse me. I think some part of me actually _wants to be raped… but I know rape is a crime. It's a Bad Thing._

But if it's such a Bad Thing, then why do I always cry out with pleasure in my dreams? Why do I imagine people- adults- I know as my attacker? My villain? 

Yes, that's the worst. Because I can see these people forcing themselves upon me, even after I open my eyes. I always feel awkward for a few days afterward around the chosen person, gently avoiding their company and trying to come to terms with the fact that _no one ever touched me._

Still… when I dreamt of Professor Lupin, it was completely different. Oh, he still ripped my clothes to shreds and forced me against a wall; the sex was incredibly violent. But the next day, when I saw him in class, my heart skipped a beat. No, not in fear… but in anticipation. 

That dream was the beginning of a crush… a crush that has spanned nearly two years time, ever since that fateful day in third year when I looked into his eyes and saw another person instead of just a professor. His eyes are amber, deep and flecked with gold. I'm afraid I spent more time concentrating on them than on Defense Against The Dark Arts when he was teaching.

Finding out he was a werewolf deterred me not at all. If anything, it made the dreams more frequent and brutal. My subconscious introduced what I later learned was commonly called 'blood play' into my fantasies about Lupin. And, later, I discovered that many of my desires were frequently of the genre "bondage, domination, sadism, and masochism". BDS&M. A horrible, frightening acronym that I detest thinking about during daylight hours. 

I am restless. My fifth year is ending and _he is in the building again, prowling the hallways with an easy smile and a cheerful wink for me. My eyelashes always flutter, and I flush something horrible when in the same room with him. I'm afraid. I'm excited. _

I want something, but don't know how to ask for it. This is worse than convincing a girl to go to the ball with me… I'd be exposing a part of myself that I don't like, but enjoy. Yes, I'd have to reveal myself to him sexually, and I'm so scared to do something like that. 

How could I tell this older man, this person I so admire and lust after, something that I can't even find the courage to tell to my friends? What would I say, in either case? "Hello, Professor. Hello, Hermione… Ron. Did I ever tell you that I find blood to be incredibly erotic? Especially my own blood? No? Well, I do. And, since you know that, you should also know that I fantasize about being tied down and brutally raped. Night, after night, after night…"

I'd never be able to face them again. Embarrassment, shame, disgust would drive me away.

I feel so dirty. I don't think this kind of thing is at all right, even though I try so hard to reassure myself. God, all I want to do is be clean… but no amount of soap will take away the pervasive stench of my hateful desires. Sometimes I wish I could open my skull and scrub at my brain, scrub and wash it until every trace of bad, nasty thoughts had been swept away. 

Restless, restless. So restless. The night is warm and I cannot sleep. I've kicked the covers off, I've masturbated, I've laid idly in my bed observing the ceiling… but I am still awake and thinking about things I don't want to think about. 

Some horrible, traitorous part of me is suggesting that I take the Invisibility Cloak and go visit Professor Lupin in his office. I know, from a great deal of frantic and hurried spying, that he is often up very late… especially when it comes close to the full moon. I need company now; the brave and foolish part of me is suggesting that sometimes things happen on warm spring evenings when everyone is in high spirits. Good things happen. 

Oh, God. I want some good things. I want relief from the fire in my brain and between my legs. I want to feel gentle hands running up and down my spine and across my stomach.

Silent as a cat, I reach into my trunk and recover the Cloak, wrapping myself in its gauzy folds and slipping out of my bed. My naked feet make no noise on the floor as I shuffle to the door, an imperceptible wisp in time.


	2. Heavy things won't fly

Notes: I… um… I like Memorial Day. I don't like going back to school the next day. It's like coming down from a hangover, or something…

Slipping into the night is like slipping into a different lifetime. It's so quiet, and everything looks and feels bizarrely different. In darkness, it always feels like something essential about the world is missing. I'm not sure whether it's noise, or people, or love, or light. Maybe it's all of them rolled into one. And that's what makes it so unsettling. 

Darkness isn't the opposite of light, really. It's not the antithesis of light… it's simply the absence of light. The way black is the absence of color. And white is all color. Light is all things; it makes all things possible.

I am light. Voldemort is dark. Oh god, I wish it was that simple. I want to be light; I want to be purity; I want to be all things to all people.

But I'm not. No one is. Well… no one except God… and I'm not sure whether I believe in Him. I'm increasingly of the opinion that God is a simple Muggle invention, a higher being created to supplement that which humans without magic lack.

But even humans with magic lack something. I don't know what… I've never been able to put my finger on it. Is it purpose or direction, the same questions that all humans struggle with? Or something more lofty?

Or something more sinister?

The light that shines from Professor Lupin's office is very bright. I bask for a moment, invisible in its glow, before shucking my Cloak and knocking gently on his door. It opens slightly with a loud creak; I hear a calm, quiet voice from within. "One moment."

My heart rate speeds up, and I begin to shift my weight from foot to foot. I'm excited and hungry for something I know I should not be. My blood races hotly through my veins with the realization of my thought crime, and I ignore it. In that moment, all I'm asking for is companionship and warmth and light from within the darkness.

The door opens all the way, loud creak transmogrifying into a gentle hiss. "Hello, Harry." His smile is genuine and lovely, radiating a subdued happiness over my visit. "Come in."

And I do, eagerly. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder as a sign of fatherly affection, and my entire mouth goes dry. I want him so badly in that moment that I have to contain myself by counting to ten in three different languages. One, two, three…

"How are you doing, Harry? You look very well." He sits gracefully on his threadbare sofa and scoots over to make room for me. 

I sit, perhaps a touch too close. My fingers toy with the cloak I hold in my hands, absently enjoying the way the smooth material feels on my bare skin. "Thank you. I'm… um… good." Ein, zwei, drei…

He grins, a touch lopsidedly, at me. "Just good, hmm? You did quite well in the Quidditch match today; I'd think you'd be feeling better than 'good'."

Oh… the blasted Quidditch match. Uno, dos, tres… Good of him to remember, but not really what I want to think about at the moment. "Oh, yeah… I guess." I smile sheepishly, hoping I don't seem too foolish. "I just… ah… have a lot on my mind at the moment." Well, it isn't a complete lie. 

He nods. "Yes, I'm sure you do." He reaches one hand out to absently pat my thigh… and even though his touch is warm, it causes a shiver to run up my spine. "I'm glad you came to visit, Harry. It's been so hectic the past few weeks that I haven't had a chance to speak with you at all. Although…" He flashes a little smile at me. "As your Professor, I should warn you about the consequences of being in the halls after lights out."

I giggle shortly. "If you don't tell, I won't." We smile shyly at each other for a moment. 

"Yes, well. I think I'll allow it for tonight." He sighs happily and stands, leisurely moving to a large aquarium tank he's keeping on the far side of the room. He doesn't wear robes when he's in his own quarters, I've discovered, preferring Muggle sweaters and blue-jeans to wizard garb. "So, why are you up tonight? Got a burning question about Defense Against the Dark Arts to ask me?" He turns and smiles again, brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes. A little part of me melts. "Or just couldn't sleep?"

"Couldn't sleep," I whisper, entranced in watching him. I can easily imagine his large, elegant hands wrapping around my cock… or my throat. I can imagine his lips sealing over mine, his nails raking down my chest and over the tiny buds of my nipples… hard, but without breaking the skin. I can see it all so clearly. It's disturbing.

"Mmm…" He hums gently as he reaches into the tank, stroking some small, unidentifiable creature inside. "I often suffer from insomnia as the full moon draws closer." He glances up at me from beneath his eyelashes. "So, here we are."

Yes. Here we are. And what do you usually do when you can't sleep? Do you do the same thing I do? Lie back on your bed and unfasten your pants, touch yourself and moan and scream and cry and beg because you have no one to help you with your task?

"Here we are." I repeat with a wan smile. He picks up whatever he's been cuddling and holds it to his chest. How I long to be that stupid pet. 

"Yes… how has school been?" Ah… banal pleasantries. Torture is what is has been, because I have to see you every single day, Professor Lupin… but, anyway…

I wish I had the guts to say that. I don't, of course. "Good." I reply. "You know… good, but busy." Actually, it's been an absolute horror because I have to suffer through Hermione and Ron holding hands and snuggling disgustingly every single time I pass by. "So far this year has been… great." And then I go to sleep and think about you raping me and tearing me to shreds. How's that for an image? 

"I'm glad." He smiles. "You deserve some happiness, Harry."

Yes… maybe I do. But I don't have it. Not yet.


	3. And the sky might catch on fire

Notes: And, in this section, there are more spoilers for the book _1984 than any of the Harry Potter books. *bows* I used the term "thought crime" in the previous chapter, and I figured, "Hey! Why not just keep it going?"_

Also… there's a tiny, tiny fact in this that I also used in "Werewolves of London". Can you figure out what it is? Ooh! It's like a mini-mystery! ^__~

He sits beside me, the small, bunny-like creature clawing frantically at the fabric of his sweater. I feel like a fraud suddenly, a shameful and unhappy fraud; to combat the feeling, I pull my knees up to my chin and sink, a carefully contained little ball, into the softness of the couch. "You know, Harry," he says quietly, placing one innocent hand one my shoulder and cradling the pet with his other, "I think one of my greatest fears after… after Lily and James died… was that you would grow up amidst unhappiness or conflict." He smiles and hands the small, furry creature to me. It has the body and head of a rabbit, but the legs and tail of a very bright lizard. I take it gingerly and place it in my lap. "He's a _Lacerta__ Diabolus… I just call him Fortinbras." _

I nuzzle the soft fur between its ears with my fingertips. "Fort?" Professor Lupin smiles. 

"Yes… 'Fort'. Young Prince of Norway, successor of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark." He gives the base of the bunny-lizard's tail a little scritch. 

"Shakespeare?" I ask, although I know it is obviously the case. He nods, happily.

"Of course… have you read _Hamlet yet?" I shake my head. "You really should. A very beautiful play." His eyes glaze over with the sheen of someone remembering something they learned long ago. "'What a piece of work is man… How noble in reason.. how infinite in faculties… in form and moving, how express and admirable… in action how like an angel…'"_

"I saw the version with Mel Gibson," I offer, eager to break his trance. Really, he can be a bit spooky sometimes. "The Dursley's had it on one evening."

"Mmm…" He is unmoved. "You really ought to see it performed onstage. Shakespeare is always best live."

"I read that other book you gave me, though." I interject before he can say anything more. "The George Orwell one?"

"Ahh…" he nods. "_1984. What did you think?"_

I tap Fort on the nose. "I don't know. The world isn't really like that…"

"No," he agrees, "But the book is meant to serve as a warning of a world that _could be if free thought and liberty are oppressed."_

"Yeah, but…" I feel my brows scrunch together with the effort of the debate. "But that can't happen in real life. Someone, somewhere, will always resist. There will always be… y'know… rebels."

"There were rebels," he says calmly, and damn if he isn't right. "Winston and Julia were both rebels and thought-criminals."

"Yeah, but…" It's not quite the same thing; he knows this. But he's trying to prod me into thinking and putting my thoughts into words. "But they didn't actually _do anything to undermine Big Brother. They just… existed."_

"Wasn't that enough?" His face is bland and emotionless. I hate it that way. 

"No!" I exclaim. "No, because it didn't accomplish anything!"

"Didn't it? Didn't they find love together? Isn't that an accomplishment?"

I am silent for a moment. What is real love? Do I really love Professor Lupin in a romantic way? Or is it only sexual? "It wasn't real love," I whisper. "It wasn't; they betrayed each other." And would I betray you if I was cornered?

"And in the worst way possible." He leans back and suddenly we are sitting side by side, shoulders and upper arms touching. I begin to blink rapidly. "What do you think was Julia's greatest fear?"

"I don't know," I murmur. He nods thoughtfully.

"That's always bothered me. Winston's was rats… but what was Julia's?" He pauses, as if expecting a reply. But I have none to give. "I think it would be death by fire."

I raise my head in curiosity. "Why?"

He shrugs. "Why not? Why are people afraid of anything?"

"Sometimes because of something in their childhood," I offer. "You know… Ron's terrified of spiders because the twins magicked his teddy into a great hairy one when he was little." Professor Lupin smiles, but stays quiet. "What is your greatest fear, Professor?" I ask. "Is it really the moon?"

"No," he shakes his head sadly. "I wish it was that simple."

"So what is it?" I'm filled with a sudden renewed interest. If not the moon… then what?

"Muggle crosswalks," he says, face giving away nothing. We sit in silence a moment before I can gather the courage to challenge him.

"Why?"

"I saw a man get hit by an auto and die at one." His voice is completely steady; he might as well be talking about the weather. "A random, blameless accident… it frightens me."

I can only nod. "Yeah… it's scary."

"Mmm…" He makes a noise, not of agreement of disagreement, but of acknowledgement. "And you? You are afraid of…?" He turns to face me, and I can barely stand to look in his eyes.

"You think it's Voldemort, don't you?" He gnaws at his bottom lip.

"I did… until you told me during third year that you feared the Dementors more. Is that still true?"

I shake my head. "I don't know why… I'm not as afraid of outside… forces. Like, the things I can't control, I can't fear. I can't find reason to be afraid of them."

"Really?" He raises an eyebrow. "That's what scares me most."

My hand trembles as I pet Fort. "No… I'm more afraid of the things I think about-" Like rape and torture and orgasms and blood, blood, blood. "You know… I can't really control them, but they're also a part of me…"

He blinks. "Yes… I understand that feeling quite well." Abruptly his voice is cold and distant and frosty. Almost as if he doesn't want to be talking about this anymore. But now… now I'm feeling nosy, and something about the way he is staring straight ahead and gritting his teeth makes me wonder whether his thoughts have anything to do with me. What a shot in the dark of course… such hopeful thinking. But I don't really mind.

"So," I say as casually as I possibly can. "What do you… uh… think about?"


	4. And burn the axis of the world

Notes: Ooo, are you gonna be mad at me when you see where I left off on this chapter! Whahaha! 

He is silent for a moment before answering. "Harry… I adore you." My heart skips a beat. "But some things are none of your damn business."

I feel as if he slapped me in the face. Gently, I hug Fort to my chest and stare fixedly at the floor. "I'm sorry," I murmur, trying hard to keep the tears from my voice. "I didn't mean…"

"I know you didn't." His voice is very soft and close; I can feel his breath on my ear. "But it's not a good topic, Harry. Really, it's not." I feel one arm slide around my shoulder and he embraces me stiffly, mindful of the living creature between us. We stay that way for a moment, uncomfortable but unwilling to move. My face is buried in his shoulder and I can smell the spice of his deodorant, the sweetness of the soap he uses. It's calming. 

Before I can stop myself, I'm blurting it out to him. "I want to tell you something, I _really want to tell you something, but I don't want you to think I'm…" I pull away from his arms and look at him with helpless eyes, shocked at my sudden bravado. He nods._

"Harry, I very much doubt that anything you do or say could make me stop caring for you." He reaches out one hand and brushes his fingertips over my cheek. "You're… you're like the son I'll never have," he chokes, "You mean so much to me."

That statement just made everything so much worse; I want to bolt out the door and run as fast as I can away from _him, away from Hogwarts. But I've already started it; my pride will not let me leave until I've finished it. I take a deep breath through pursed lips and squeeze Fort gently for reassurance. He makes a tinny chittering noise and then falls silent._

"Then I… I, um…" I've made the unconscious decision to begin with the easiest facts and work my way to the hardest. "I think I might be… you know… _gay."_

His face remains blank for a moment, causing me to fidget. Then, before I can say another word, he is giggling, laughing so hard he's practically doubled over. I scowl. "What's so funny?"

"Oh Harry!" He gasps and shakes his head. "Nothing. You just… love whomever you want to." He gives a final chuckle, sighs, and leans back into the couch cushions. "It would be significantly hypocritical of me to scold you for something so simple."

I nod, not entirely understanding, but knowing that he didn't disapprove. "Ok, but… there's more." He nods and I take another deep breath. "Um… I have these weird dreams a lot. Dreams where I'm… er…" I'm trying to think of a socially acceptable euphemism for it. "Taken advantage of?" He stares at me, uncomprehending. "Um… Sexually assaulted?" His brow furrows, and I give in. "Raped."

"Oh…" If he felt uncomfortable before, then I shudder to think how he's feeling now. His eyes shift left and right very quickly, as if he was thinking or trying to avoid my stare. One finger is twirling thoughtlessly in a lock of his hair. "Well… rape is a very…_odd… thing, when you come to think about it." He shifts his position on the couch slightly, putting one knee up on the cushions and tucking the rest of his leg beneath his body. We are now facing. "Yes… um… I'm sure you've heard people say that rape is not a crime about sex?" I nod. Yes, I have… and I don't believe it for a second. "And that's… accurate, to a certain extent."_

We stare at each other for a moment, both of us uncomfortable. I refuse to speak. Finally, he coughs politely and continues. "Well… Rape _is about sex, of course. I won't deny it. But there's also a great deal of power struggle and violent emotion involved. The desire to… control… something you shouldn't be able to." He hesitates, and I think I can see sadness in his eyes. "But dreams are not always meant to be taken literally. Perhaps you feel as if too many things in this world depend upon you? Perhaps you wish subconsciously for less responsibility…?"_

"No," I say quietly, but firmly. "No, that's not right." He gives me a look of pure curiosity. 

"Why are you so sure?" He's not challenging me, just asking. And, just for a moment, I allow my eyes to meet his. They are so warm, so filled with concern and love, that I cannot help but take the plunge.

"Because I don't just dream about it." He opens his mouth as if to reply, but I continue before he can get a word in. "I think about it, sometimes during the day… but mostly at night. I think about it and I get, you know… excited." I blush, but he doesn't seem to see anything wrong or embarrassing about this statement. "It's just that… well, I know it's really wrong, but I can't stop-" I run a hand through my hair. "You know."

Again he opens his mouth, but I don't want to give him a chance to reassure me. I feel so horrible and dirty at the moment that I just want to revel in it. "And the worst part… the worst part is that I always imagine someone I know as the attacker." I pause a moment to see how he'll take this statement; he doesn't flinch. "And then it's hard to… um… be normal. 'Cause I feel sort of scared of them even though they've never laid a finger on me."

"The mind is a powerful thing," he says quietly, propping his elbow up on the back of the couch and resting his head in his hand. "Harry, have you ever considered acting on your desires? Trying to make your fantasies come true?"

"No," I reply hoarsely, lying through my teeth. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, as if he is thinking very hard about this difficult problem. 

"Well… perhaps you ought to." That was not the response I was expecting; my eyes go wide. "If you can find a consenting and trustworthy partner, I think the experience would be quite good for you." He leans closer and places on hand on my bare knee. "Obviously this really bothers you, Harry. And it shouldn't. Rape fantasies, while not exactly common, are not _wrong in any way. So long as they remain fantasies." He smiles wanly. "Don't go walking in any dark alleys in the middle of the night looking for trouble."_

My voice cracks when I try to speak. "You think I should… do this?" He nods. 

"Harry, you are a sexual being… whether you like it or not. And even though we label you as children and try to repress any desires you have… well, the fact is that you _aren't really children anymore. And you shouldn't have to be ashamed or embarrassed because of something that is perfectly natural." _

His hand is warm on my skin, and I've stopped listening to what he's saying because our eyes have met and all I can see is amber, all I can feel is love. He falls silent and we stare unashamedly at each other. I put my hand over top of his and lean forward; he does not move. My nose brushes his, our lips touch, my eyelashes flutter, and we are kissing. 


	5. That's why I prefer a sunless sky

Uh… look! A new chapter! I suck…

For the briefest moment, a kind of paralyzing fear seizes me; he is not kissing me back. And then, suddenly, the spell is broken. Our lips are meeting hungrily, almost violently. He opens his mouth just a bit, and I slide my tongue in experimentally. My kisses are very clumsy and sloppy, but he takes no notice. I take no notice. It is utterly gorgeous.

I reach to loop my hands around his neck, leaning in closer as I do so. My stomach bends over Fort; together, my and Professor Lupin's bodies create a cavern for him to hide in. 

But as soon as the flesh of my wrist makes contact with the heated skin of his neck, I feel resistance. Sharp pressure on my breastbone- Remus' hand- pushes me backward, hard enough that I fall indignantly into the soft cushions of the sofa. Our lips part reluctantly with a loud smacking sound.  

I see him through lidded, sullen eyes; I understand that he has rejected me and it hurts like nothing I've ever felt before. He is on his feet now, looking rumpled and wide-eyed. As he backs away, he asks, "What do you think you're doing?"

His tone of voice is one I've never heard before, from his mouth or any other. It is a strange mixture of panic, fear, anger, and confusion. Nearly a scream, but not. 

"Professor, I-" I want to say something, anything to pacify him, but he cuts me off in that same shrill timbre.

"Harry, you've had your tongue in my mouth; call me Remus!" With that said, he stalks over to where I am. For the briefest instant I think he might hit me, but instead he snatches Fort from my lap. 

"R-Remus, I just-" He holds up one hand, curtly.

"Shut up, Harry." He stands several feet away, gripping Fort tightly against his chest. His eyes are narrowed and, when I look closely, I can see that his hands are shaking. "You… you have no idea what you just did."

"Yes, I do," I whisper. He sets his jaw grimly.

"No, you do not." He turns slightly so that I see only his profile. As I watch, he closes his eyes as if in pain. "There are so many ways to break a person, Harry. To destroy them." His voice is cracking slightly; he wants to cry, but is holding back his tears. "To humiliate them. To get them into trouble."

"But I didn't want-" I'm practically pleading with him.

"You're fifteen!" He screams, still not facing me. "You're fifteen, my best friend's son, and I'm not supposed to like you!" He gives a single, strangled sob to punctuate this statement and lets his head fall to his chest, his cheek brushing Fort's ears.

My eyes widen. I'm not sure if I've ever seen an adult lose control of themselves emotionally, especially not over a situation involving me and only me. I've seen tantrums, raw anger, violence, but never the awful helplessness and desperation Remus was exuding. I can feel his emotions influence mine; when I speak, I find I can barely control my voice.

"Please," I stand, twisting the hem of my shirt around my fingers. "Please, I'm sorry…"

He shakes his head violently and moves over to Fort's tank, muttering just loud enough that I can hear. "No, you're not, you fucking slut. Harlot. Jailbait; Lolita; whore." His voice is without anger, without conviction. He calls me dirty names as if he is reciting facts from a textbook.

I feel a lump forming in my throat; I try to blink back my tears, but the fat drops are already spilling over my cheeks. His insults hurt so much, but it hurts more to understand how absolutely furious he must be to call me those things. I hug my arms tight across my chest and whisper, "I'm sorry."

"Fuck you." His response is quick and crisp and so forceful that I feel myself take a step back. He places Fort down in the glass cage and turns to face me, placing one hand on his hip and running the other through his hair. "And what will you ask me to believe next, hmm?"

"I'm not trying to hurt you…" I try to tell him, but I'm not confident enough, and he immediately pounces on my words. 

"Really? Yes, I see how that would be the case. You do know that if anyone found out that we'd… kissed-" Ah, a moment of hesitation, "- I'd be out on the curb so fast I'd barely know what happened. And do you know how they'd find out?" His stare makes me uncomfortable, so I lower my chin and stare at the floor. "If you told them." A pause. "The power's in your hands now. Exactly where you wanted it to be, I'm sure. Now you can go running to McGonagall and Dumbledore and tell them all about how nasty, old Professor Lupin molested you."

My breath hitches. "I don't want to tell them that…" I whisper, twisting my arms behind my back and rocking slightly on my heels. I want to show him that I'm passive, that I'm little, that I'm not a threat to him. 

"But how do I know that, Harry? How do I _know?" His voice is low and keening; I can only hear sadness now, the anger having been drowned by sheer desperation. "I __can't trust you. I'm sorry." He pauses; from the corner of my eye, I see him shrug. "I'm sorry." _

He sighs wearily and turns his back on me. I wait a moment, confused, before realizing that his moment of indifference is meant as a signal to me to leave. But I don't want to leave. I want to rush up behind him and give him a fierce hug; I want to tell him that I'll make it all better, somehow. But I cannot. I can only remain rooted to the floor, watching his back for the slightest movement, the tiniest motion that might hint that he is about to turn around and tell me that all is forgiven.

There is only silence. Silence, and the ancient _tick-tock_ of a grandfather clock that is older than both of us. 

Tick.

Tock.

"I'm sorry," I try again. My voice cowers with nervousness. He sighs and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Yes, I believe you are," he murmurs. I wait, but he does not accept, reject, or amend my apology. In truth, I'm not even sure of what I'm apologizing for. All I know is that I want to make everything better, and apologies are the only way I know how.

I realize, standing there in my bare feet and ratty pajamas, that if I left—the way he obviously wants me to—things would never be the same between us. There would always be awkwardness, like a wall, between us. There would be no more afternoons of classwork help, no tea early on weekend mornings, and certainly no more visits in the middle of the night. If I turn around and leave, I'd be losing more than an opportunity… I'd be losing a friend.

And yet, I have no idea how to put my feelings into words, how to make him realize that I don't want to lose what we already have. I want to make it better; I want to make it more. It's not all about sex, although that's certainly a part of it. It's about discovery; it's about the supplement of emotions upon emotions. It's about never being alone and never being afraid. It's about my desire to be controlled, to let him control me.

It's about love, or what I think is love, or what I've mistaken for love. But what does it matter? It all feels the same to me.

I clear my throat and he jumps slightly, startled by the sudden noise. "I… umm…" Upon hearing my voice he turns. He looks very tired, even more so than usual. "I'd like to say something." He makes no reply, but stares directly into my eyes to show he is listening. The gesture makes me nervous and all too aware of the reaction he is sure to have to the sappy line I am about to feed him. "I'd like to say that, well… that is I _think_ that… maybe… I… I…

I love you."


	6. To the glittering and stinging in my eye...

Notes: This has been sitting, dormant, on my computer for more than a year now. Might as well let all you whiners out there see what little I've accomplished. 

He shows no reaction to the emotion that I've opened between us. He just stares unnervingly, his arms crossed protectively over his chest. The stillness makes me so nervous that I begin to chew on one of my fingertips, my teeth rubbing the skin red and raw.

After more than a minute passes, I decide to try again. "I said, 'I love'-"

"Yes, I heard you; you don't need to repeat it." His words are very short and clipped. I swallow hard and stare for a moment at the swollen flesh around my nail, before risking a glance back. 

"And… um… what do you think about…um…?" He sighs as I stammer.

"I think a better question would be what do you expect me to think?" He shakes his head. "Honestly, Harry… _honestly."_

"I don't know!" I feel desperate. "I don't know what _I_ think, and I don't know why I keep imagining you-" His eyes widen, and the words die in my throat.

"You imagine me… what?" He asks, but I can tell he's already figured it out. He takes a step closer to me and I find myself wishing I'd just stayed in my bed and imagined this confrontation instead of deciding to try living it. "Please, Harry. Tell me."

I open my mouth to speak, but embarrassment chokes my words. Tears of frustration burn at the corners of my eyes. "I can't," I confess, finally. "I can't say it. You already _know_, anyway. I _know you __know; you don't _need_ me to say it."_

There is another long pause between us, during which I sniffle slightly and try to swallow my humiliation. Finally he whispers, "Earlier I said you were no longer a child." Silence. "I was wrong."

I look up angrily, more than slightly insulted. "Are you saying I'm…?"

"Immature? Yes. Naïve? Yes." He smiles humorlessly. "Still a child."

My eyes narrow. "I'm fifteen; I'm _not stupid. __You said you weren't supposed to like me… the way I like you. But I think you _do_ like me, a little bit. And you don't know what to do, so you just want to get rid of me and pretend it never happened. But that won't make it go away…" The exhausted expression on his face makes me stop. _

"Very astute." He runs his fingers through his hair. "You are a very intelligent child, Harry. But still a child. And I'm supposed to be the adult." He shrugs. "This doesn't mean that I know what to do, or how to feel about you. It just means that I'm responsible."

I ignore his words because they are not what I want to hear. "You said I should act out my fantasies." I spin around and take a few steps away from him, toward the door, as if I was leaving. "You would throw me to the inexperienced _little boys that I share a room with?" I'm angry, almost comically so, and turn on my heel to glare at him. "You'd prefer to know that I allowed Seamus, or Ron, or Lee, or Fred, or George to __rape me?" He flinches as I narrow my eyes and spit out the words without giving a thought to their blatant obscenity. "Fuck m—?"_

Suddenly he is by my side, one hand curled around my neck. I barely saw him move, but here he is. And he is angry.

"You're baiting me." His voice is calm, but his eyes are on fire. "You want something and, in typical Potter-ish fashion, you are going to go to any lengths to acquire it." He sounds rather remarkably like Professor Snape in this moment, and I can barely keep from laughing aloud with agitated recognition. "You father used to do this, in his own little ways." He begins to advance, his feet brushing against mine as he uses his grip on my neck to push me backward. When my shoulder blades finally hit the far wall, I realize how tight his fingers are, how much violence his is truly holding back so as not to harm me physically. "It was one of his most annoying traits."

We stare at each other for a tense moment, neither quite ready to acquiesce. I memorize his facial features, the gentle curve of his nose, the piercing and unusual color of his eyes, the heavy line of his eyebrow—werewolves tend to develop a single eyebrow as they grow older, he told me once. 

Finally, he sighs and releases me, his hand hanging uncertainly in the air for a moment before dropping lifelessly to his side. "And, you know? I always gave in to your father." He looks very tired. "Just as I suspect I'll give in to you." He looks more sad than angry now, and I begin to feel uneasy. Maybe getting my way isn't a good thing, not this time. And it's slightly creepy to be compared to my father in a way that sounds very sexual. But probably isn't. 

Most definitely isn't.

I look at him with worried eyes, and his expression fools me into thinking he knows all of my hesitations, my fears, my expectations. He fools me so well that, when he draws in close to my face, I think he is going to tell me to go back to bed—to my own bed—where I belong. 

But he doesn't. He kisses me, hard and fierce, wrenching my jaw open with one hand and forcing his tongue into my mouth as my eyes fly wide open and I give a surprised squeak. My hands flail for a moment, hitting him weakly on the shoulders, until he breaks the connection of our lips with a loud smacking noise unattractive enough to make me flinch. "Not so nice, is it?" He whispers, his voice low with contempt and pity and an underlying nastiness that I never thought he possessed. "Not so much like your dreams… not so brave now, are you?" He still has hold of my chin, his fingertips pressing into the flesh of my cheeks, and turns my face from side to side as if to study it. I wonder how he knows so precisely how I am feeling. Perhaps he reads my thoughts. Perhaps he knows exactly what it's like to think them.

"Damn you," he whispers finally, his breath hissing against my cheek. "Damn you for being you."


End file.
